Just call me John.

Pearl Cliffs

John, Chapter 1

In my hometown, a small place in Senta Orino, residents and solicitors would ask me all the time if I believed or ever gave a care about a god. I would shoot the shit with them for a minute or two, seeing if I could change the topic. Normally it works with the old bastards, they could barely keep up with someone younger than them. If I couldn’t dissuade them, I would tell them “Yes Ma’am” or sir, many of the people who asked were females “I believe in our lord and savior.” I’d always just say that out of pity, those bastards were always so old and innocent. They would pester me with even more questions if I had said I hadn’t believed in a god.

Regardless of what lies or excuses I could muster to escape the conversation and return to any other pressing matters I had to attend to; they would always ask me to come to church with them even if it wasn’t Sunday.

I remember one time my neighbor, Ms. Pauline asked me if I would accompany her at church, her son and Husband had died around 6-ish years ago. Real brutal accident it was, I heard rumors that the son was killed immediately but the husband survived; Only about a week later did he pass. The son I feel the worst for, he was just too young. He was tall, about six foot two, he had about mid-length brown hair. It was nice and suave, he liked to dress nice too; Not too dissimilar to me. If you squinted at Ms. Pauline’s son, you’d mistake him for me. Sometimes Ms. Pauline would do just that, that old hag would mistake me for her own god damn son.

Anyway, Ms. Pauline was in her mid-50s, and I felt sorry for her; she had no one to talk to. She must've been so damn lonely. When she asked me to attend church with her you could hear her voice tremble slightly. I couldn’t help myself and made such a spontaneous choice, I was such a kiss-ass for elders.

I remember thinking to myself about why Ms. Pauline was now a believer in God, she wasn’t exactly the kind of person who would get down on her knees and sob if an un-earthly apparition came down and terrorized her, but she wasn’t the kind to believe in ghosts or the supernatural either. It almost seemed like the accident brought something out in her.

We talked briefly on the way towards the church, she of all people preferred walking to driving. She asked me about my life and where it was going and all that jazz, but I just kept thinking about why she of all people believed in God. It was such a weird and foreign idea to me.

Eventually we made it over to the church, it wasn’t too pretty but it wasn’t an eyesore either. It was just a building that stood there with crosses painted all over the wooden exterior. It looked about twenty years old and sat firmly on top of the hill overlooking our small town. It was a nice clearing too, nothing too romantic; It had this clearing from the surrounding army of stature oaks. The whole area had this aura of nostalgia draping over it.

Ms. Pauline and I approached the front entrance of the church, both of us stepping off the gravel trail and onto the slightly raised cement sidewalk. It was there where I first saw the Pastor, he was standing by the door just waiting to greet everyone who even dared step foot up to the church. The Pastor coincidentally happened to turn his head and witness Ms. Pauline treading up to the double wooden doors of the church.

“Ms. Pauline!” You could hear his beaming enthusiasm from miles away. People like that always rub me the wrong way, to be so confident and joyful just for the hell of it.

“It’s truly such a joy to see you again!"

I guess Ms. Pauline didn't feel much like shouting amongst the growing nearer twelve-foot distance between her and the pastor. Only until the Pastor got close enough did Ms. Pauline finally speak.

“Sorry I’ve been gone, I guess I got too caught up in my gardening." She had retorted her remark as the Pastor had accused her of a varnished rule of God. Regardless, I had never seen her garden once but none the less the Pastor bought the excuse, and I could tell he was about to ask who her guest was.

Before he could get the chance to ask me anything I extended my hand towards his. I have this awful habit of always being brash whenever I meet someone new. I couldn’t tell you where I got it from, perhaps my father. Although I don’t have any memories of when he would’ve “pulled a John,” as a distant friend once called it.

The Pastor gave me this funny kind of look, I couldn't tell if it was because of my impromptu handshake or if it was something else entirely. He tilted his head in curiosity, I could tell he was just playing something of an act. 

“I believe you’re new here, have you signed the registration form and paid the entrance fee?” I acted puzzled and hid the fact that I knew he was making a poor joke.

He let out a slight laugh, sounded like a god damn horse wheezing. “I’m just messing with you! You should’ve seen the look on your face!” God, I hated him so much even though I’d just met him. See, even if it’s just a joke, you don't go about teasing someone about that kind of stuff.

After I forced out a laugh to his enjoyment, he put his hand on my back and told me that he’d show me around the church.

I never really got his first name, only his last name “Snyder.” With a surname like that, no one would ever perceive you as trustworthy.

Up until that point, I had been so infatuated with his name tag that I hadn't even noticed the man I'd been looking at. With shallow blue eyes, a strained face, and a medium stubble to conclude his visage. He stood tall, at least taller than me, always having to look down at you.

With the Pastor's hand still on my back, we walked into the main chamber of the church where he waved his hand in front of my face a gave me an almost sarcastic "Ta-Da" where he extended the vocalization for as long as he could or at least until I gave the Pastor praise, a look of awe, or money.

I gave the Pastor an innocent stare to signal to him that I wouldn't corroborate to what the Pastor wanted me to say. In return he let out a sigh, looked down, and walked me up towards his alter.

"It's a powerful thing you know." He said like a prideful father teaching his son a valuable lesson on life.

"What is sir?"

"Please, call me Snyder. My first name is too bland. And uh" his mind drew a blank as he paused, "I was referring to the alter!" He pointed his fatty finger at a chiseled oak stand like I was some blind bat.

After nodding like a madman, he must of taken it as an invitation to fuck around up next to his alter like I was a little kid. You'd think that a Pastor, of all people, would have a Profesional attitude towards their environment and mass. After putting on a pretend smile, the Pastor began to act real brazen.

"You know, you're awfully young compared to the regular crowd that comes to service."

At the time I was 27, I was still somewhat spry and hadn't begun drinking yet. I could understand where he was coming from when he asked about his next request.

"Our church is looking to aquire more-"

Just then, the wooden doors that held us on the inside from the cult like crowd had opened up. It felt like being in the heart of a gold rush. People flowed through the doors like salmon traveling upstream.

When finally they had all reached whichever seats they thought would give them the best view of the Pastor's alter, he looked down at his watch then back at me, declaring he had "better get going."

With the service only being a minute or so away from starting, I turned my back to his and began zipping my eyes against the many occupied seats looking for a familiar face. My eyes came across Ms. Pauline, her bright blue dress made her stand out from the rest of the crowd. I made my way toward her, excusing myself as I weaved through the several rows of occultists.

When I made my way to her after what felt like an hour of shuffling about, someone else had already gotten my seat. An older man of 60 who looked terminally ill and not made for this world.

"Excuse me sir, would you mind if I sat down there?" I made sure to put on the most sympathetic tone I could to sway the dying star to move.

"Oh, gladly sport! Here let me just grab my book." After he licked his lips and leaned forward to grab his book he stood up with a pop and begin to walk off. Of course it couldn't be that simple though.

"My beautiful grandson!" Exclaimed Ms. Pauline, for whatever reason this prompted the older gentleman to turn around and give me an extra greeting.

"You're Ms. Pauline's grandson now are you sport?"

"No no I'm just-"

"Well look here, you take care of her now. She's had a tremendous amount of loss in her life. Care for her with everything will you?" Before I knew it, the whole damn church excepted me as being "Ms. Pauline’s grandson." All because the stupid bitch couldn't keep her mouth shut.

After I finally had the chance to sit down and get Ms. Pauline to quiet down the Pastor began the service with a prayer then opened to "the lord's lesson." Here's where religion really gets everyone, the lessons are so vague and relatable that people believe God himself made this moment for them. I felt the same way every time Snyder gave me a "divine lesson."

I don't remember much during the sermon or much of what the Pastor had talked about. I actually only remember two odd details during the whole ordeal, one was that the Pastor was entranced on this concept of the youth being "God's voice," and the other was how the Pastor was fixated on me during service. Every time he said "youth" his head turned towards where I sat. It always put me on edge, the way the Pastor would stare and nod at me. He had this nod of approval that made you feel you had just won an award.

The whole service was rather boring, with nothing to do I returned to my thoughts before I had been dragged in this whole ordeal. See, My parents when they were still around wanted to get me indoctrinated into a camp. They said a normal person wouldn't have stuttered as much as I and that I shouldn't be so recluse. To convince them otherwise, I met this pleasant women, Mary. I met her when I was in Pensley prep, I chose to rather forget about those days. Mary was the only pleasant thing there, I forget what class we shared or even if we shared a class at all. All I remember of her was the name she had.

Before I had ended my reminiscing on old's past, the Pastor had wrapped up service. As the flock of unfortunate souls realized the gold was gone they slowly wondered what to do next with their imminent life's. As the bewildered crowd shook hands with the Pastor, he moved towards me quite elegantly. Once he finally reached me, after shaking what looked like 20 or so hands, he asked if I would be willing to talk privately in his office.

After leading me on like a child willing to show his famed accomplishment, he managed to entrance me in the decorative entrance that was his office. Snyder ushered me inside with a look of pride and stepped beside then around me as he took a seat opposing me.

"How do you like my post?" He pierced the silence with such modesty that any fathomable words became quickly inconceivable.

"It's quite elegant." In truth, it was nothing compared to the crown molded entrance way leading to the dull interior of whatever conception one might have held in thought.

The Pastor gave me a confused look and commented on my stoicism, "I guess you could say that." He followed by giving a dissatisfied frown. Almost as if a brilliant idea had hit him, he glanced up at me and said only two words. "Youth outreach."

"I beg your pardon?"

"See, God gave me a vision." I nearly about died there. "He shared with me my achievements and short comings, all the good that I would bring to the world." After rambling on for what seemed like hours the Pastor finally got to his point.

"That's what God needs me to do. He wants to spread his word in a new and revolutionary way. Now youth outreach is new per se but I was thinking of a different kind of outreach."

"What do you mean sir?"

"What if instead of traveling locally, we sent you across the globe. Preaching through our community isn't enough, as God put it. We need to aim bigger!"

Here's where I really started to hate the guy, he lost touch of what a religion should be. While I personally couldn't give two shits about how one leads their following, you shouldn't abuse your powers. He wanted to use me to line his pockets, go out into the world and convince people that God is our savior.

"I see, why tell me?" I was just a tad curious on whether I had assumed correctly, a slender and well spoken man molds well into a priest.

"Look at yourself! You're the youngest person here and I saw the way your eyes flared open in service this morning." I still can't figure out whether he was eluded to believing my interest or if the Pastor was simply deceiving me into partaking in this new youth outreach program of his.

"It makes sense logically, but why should I? I'd have to leave behind what I have worked so hard for."

"Here's why, you get paid to travel the world! I would've jumped on this opportunity if I were you're age, you don't get this opportunity often."

"It's not that I don't want to go, it's the cost of utilities, travel, food, clothing, and so much more. I really don't have the time or money to do so."

I knew the Pastor was going to offer me money regardless, that's why I chose my words accordingly. See, you never ask someone directly what you want, you need to sew the idea inside their head first.

"I'll pay you to travel, I'll pay for your clothes, I'll pay for your food. Anything you want I'll get you. This is God's plan, and God's plan always sees through."

"Alright alright, how about training?" I was getting quite tired in that particular moment and couldn't wait to get out of this crooked bastards office, the menacing smile and greed had been seeping off of him the whole conversation. I was in no state of mind to make a decision either, I had been practically dragged from my home and into a church's service. However much I despised being there, the offer of opportunities started to root itself into my skull.

"If you're concerened about any certifications don't worry, God gave me his instructions and said them very clear. I know what must be done, all you have to do is shake my hand and you'll be off to Truist in a week or so." He then extended his hand towards me and gave me this look of dependence, he was asking if I trusted him in such a way without using any words. Without using any words I conveyed that I did not trust him. He yearned for some young niave spirit to replace his own. Someone willing to endure his dark and perverse fantasies, he had exposed himself upon myself hoping that I wouldn't take notice or care for what he truly was, filth.

I assume he realized this as his eyes had turned to a more stern look as he retracted his hand and showed a mixed look of both disgust and worry. His hand started twitching as a rush of emotions had befallen upon him, the Pastor's mouth trembling to utter such few words, "I know you." Rage started to slowly fill the empty spaces within the Pastor's visage and his mask had transformed into a grand performance of stern anger. Last thing I could recall was him screaming at me to vacant his church, that I should never come back again. For someone so religiously devoted it's hard to believe that he was capable of breaking any moral grounds he was either raised or brung into.

I took my leave from his underwhelming office and into the blank but lavish chamber where it had once been full of devoted patrons. My shoes made a nice clicking sound against the brown hardwood floor, a soft steady beat as my shoes glided softly across the floor. I dug both my hands into my pocket and almost immediately realized that my appearance was off, I took my hands out and ran them down the back of my lapel and proceeded to drag my hands through my hair as to push it back. At the end of my routine I straightened my back and my hand took the appearance of a brown leather briefcase. I looked around me for some sort of mirror or clear reflection as I marched triumphantly down the softly echoing chamber, as soon as I did find one I tilted my head slightly back towards my reflection in a large cathedral glass for as long as I could. I've always liked staring at my reflection, it's always nice to have reassurance that you'll always be the same person. As the line of panes ended down the chamber's corridor I took a left into the main room where an elderly woman picking up trampled posters had tilted her head up towards me and asked if everything was well with the Pastor. I didn't feel much like talking, I didn't feel much for anything. I just wanted to be home, just some place familiar.

Lucky and Abigail, Chapter 2

As I've said before I live in a relatively small town, not small enough where everyone knows each other but just large enough where the occasional group of tourists pass on through. I couldn’t tell you why they would come here of all places, this town is full of rot. Regardless the local Hotspot of the town was a secluded bar, the only place where you could meet someone new or at least get a decent drink.

I understand how one would find that hypocritical, being so antisocial but loving to meet new people. Here's what you have to understand, the definition of "meeting a person" is different between you or I. As long as I've observed someone I've met them. Your definition might be to the contrary of mine where you need to shake hands, meet parents, or even have dinner with someone. At that point it just becomes a date or you become a pawn for that person. Just another connection to call a favor upon.

Take for example when I was going through college, this kid named Lucky. I could never remember his real name as we never talked much. I called him Lucky as he'd always been given his opportunities, whether it be from some rich hotshot or a friend of his father's. Either way in our college dorm the only way down was through a stairwell at the end of one long central hall. Lucky had his dorm closest to the stairwell, his father practically owned the dormitory so Lucky had his privileges. See, the downside to privilege is the dependence on others. Dependence on others is the calling card of a frail man, for he deserves no more than what he can obtain for himself. With Lucky, he expected others to assist him like butlers to serve at his every beck and call. Truly pathetic, it was an emberassement to live in the same hallway as him.

On top of his dramatically helpless nature of being incompetently needy, I had other reasons to resent him. Late into the night sometime late December a buddy of mine had called for me. He lived a floor below my dorm room, a swift expedition. I spent a minute debating with myself whether it was worth the journey. After all Lucky would crack his head out of his dormitory door for every astute sound he heard. It annoyed me to the point where I thought about preparing an air horn for his ear if he ever planned on catching me in the sacred act of crossing his dorm room. Eventually I ruled that the journey was worth the risk even if it meant coming across Lucky. I slipped on an olive green jacket and a secondary pair of black dress shoes in case he needed me for a more formal matter.

By time I had opened my door to leave for the next one down, Lucky already had his head poking out, looking for his next victim. I knew he'd already been well aware of my presence and could hear his footsteps shuffle against the shallow carpet of the dormitory hall. From the softly illuminated yellow painted hallways, I could hear the voice echo down the corridor.

"Bruce! Brucy-Boy! Is that you lad?"

Giving my response a quick thought after squeezing the bridge of my nose and letting out an audible sigh just so he'd understand what an inconvenience he was being.

"Yes, Lucky?"

"You know that's not my name, Bruce"

"Then you know my name isn't Bruce. Now if you'll excuse me I need to go."

I began to move my right leg forward, by then Lucky had already cornered me in the doorframe. Blocking me from leaving and trapping me to converse with this insufferable creation of man. I made an attempt to shove past him to no avail as he leaned his arm against the wood paneling further cementing himself into place.

"Look, Bruce, I need a favor. Badly this time, I know you and I aren't on good terms but no one else is up."

"Jesus Christ, Lucky." I squeezed my dorsal bridge again as I addressed Lucky. "Can't you find anyone else willing to participate in your self-indulgence?"

"For the last time my name isn't Lucky it's-"

"Honestly, I don't give a damn what your name is. Get out of my way Lucky, I'm late to an important meeting."

"John, John, John. Poor, sweet, innocent, John. I can have you kicked out of here in an instant. Are you sure you want to blow me over right now?"

At that moment I had come up with a brilliant idea, I started one sleave at a time to take off my jacket.

"Sure, that may be true Lucky. However, I have no care for what you have to say."

"You're taking off your jacket? Why? You better not be closing that door on me." Like an idiot he put his foot in my door way, trying to act more than what he was.

"No, Lucky, No. I'm not going to close the door on you, that'd just be rude." I gave him a slight smirk and pulled my jacket off.

"Here, Lucky, hold this." I raised my jacket up to where it had covered his face, waiting till lucky grabbed hold of it.

"Uh, John? What? Wh-"

"Well I had to make sure you wouldn't get too hurt." I leaned my arm back and drove through his mouth with my whole fist. Just like that I socked him square in his mouth. After a second of him stumbling around like a dazed, bumbling moron, I started to walk away from him and towards the stair case.

"Johnathan, you fucking dick! I'm gonna kill you! Have you kicked out of here, you think you have any chance of a future anymore!"

"Keep the jacket, Lucky. You'll need something to keep your blood off your father's carpet."

I leaned the arm I had socked him with hard into the gaurd railing of the staircase as I slowly made my way down and away from where Lucky was softly crying. Ever since then I developed a habit of leaning my arm against walls, tables, railings, anything I could put it up against. Always acting like I'd have been shot, staggering away calmly.

It must have been just before midnight when I found myself in the bar I was talking about earlier. Locals called it "The Pub" as the owner couldn't pick an appeasing name for his business, the best the owner could do was "The Hotel Poison." Only the tourists liked the name regardless if it made any damn sense as there weren't any nearby hotels nor would they sponsor the bar. The apparent reason on how the owner settled on the name was he thought it humorous to make the name sound professional so such a unprofound place.

Lacking all depth, the only reason I was a frequent visitor was like I said, I enjoy watching people while being served a drink ever so often. I'll usually order 3 scotches throughout the night and sit at the same two person table in the corner. All the waitresses there are girls, the owner of the place only hired women he found attractive enough, the thought process was, if they can seduce a man, they'll make a man buy another drink. Only one of the waitresses talks to me, her name's Reagan. I assume she took an interest to my guise as she knew exactly what I wanted and when. Every time the minute hand passed the 45 mark, Reagan brought out a small glass with exactly 1.5 ounces of scotch, no ice followed by 3 white napkins and 1 white napkin for every time she would make a return trip. After each stop at my table, she sits down across from me, discussing what we each saw within the hour. After a minute or two of discussions, Reagan would excuse herself and leave. I could tell of course Reagan didn't care too much for my act, she only wanted someone who wasn't terribly drunk who she could gossip to. Someone who wouldn't change and was able to understand her, someone who was devoid of judgment that she could trust with her critiques of etiquette and filth. I understood her while at the same time I resented her for choosing me of all people.

"Johnatha-an! How's my special man doing today?" She added a wink at the end as she always does, the owner scolds the waitresses deeply if they ever forget a wink. Very much similar to a mother having to pull her child aside in a store.

"I'm doing fine tonight, Ms. Paisley, will this be the most there are tonight?" I looked throughout the dwindling crowd at the unusually low patron count inside the pub.

"I'm not a news caster, honey. I can't tell the future. If you're that bored you can always talk with me." She gave me a suggestive wink while starting to walk away.

I had nothing left in my head besides thoughts, which those too became boring. Being alone with your thoughts gets boring when you've been over every memory. The good ones as well as the bad ones. Typically I go through each memory as if they were catalogued by the people each memory ascertained. It got boring with everything being thought of. Similar to how a child gets bored with a toy, only my "toy" took years of processing. A child is always begging it's parents for more toys, the way I drag my body to make new memories.

"Can I help you?"

A voice came from the direct view of my lumbering eyes, as I grappled any cognitive ability out of my thoughts.

"I'm sorry?"

"Can I help you?"

This time more impending as if she had somewhere important to be rather than confronting me.

"I heard what you said, just not the 'why' part."

"For such a creep, you sure do act intelligent."

It hit me then as I had then managed to wrestle my brain out of thought and into reality.

"For someone so accusing, you sure do act moronic."

"Cute, not even gonna apologize to me?"

A girl stood across the table from me, hands against her hips, looking more stern than what her personality would allow her to be.

"Apologize for what? I don't recant doing anything wrong, immoral, or illegal."

I always do this with strangers, to see how they react. Most common route for these strangers is too get more snarky with me. Instead she took a more passive tone.

"This won't go anywhere, look, I've had a rough day at work and the last thing I need is some dressed up creep staring at me, okay?"

"Oh, so there was a miscommunication, I tend to get lost in my own thoughts from time to time. Drinking at the same pub doesn't get any less boring without friends after all."

"Sure, just don't do the whole intent staring again, alright?"

That's not entirely how the story went, most interactions I have with people are quick, simple even, always seeing who leads, takes the footing in a waltz. Those cunning enough use a more cynical footing, those less cunning, tend to lag behind. Carrying their weight just gets so tiresome, I'd rather be recatlogueing my mind. Instead I'm stuck in the bar watching what very few remain in here. While I can observe a stranger to an insurmountable level of detail, the time it took to learn about said stranger is only held as a blurred frenzy. Time just moves slower for me.

"Johnathan, Johnathan."

I hadn't realized how much time had passed since Reagan had left, else she had some other vague intention of needing to talk with me rather than just waiting.

"Was that lady giving you trouble?"

She said with a face I could only describe as 'overexhageratedly pouty.'

"No, no she's fine"

"Fine? Well how do you mean Johnathan?"

No matter what I would've said, Reagan would've used the same method of turning my retort into an open ended question to keep my attention on her. Like I was a kid, tempted by tales of brave Ulysses.

"She's fine, just fine. Since you obviously want me talking to you so bad, who is she?"

I was quite curious on who she was, most people leave me alone, saying my demeanor is too cruel. Reagan on the other hand is, appalled, by what I can only self describe as, sharp, personality. While most people feel lonely in the long nights, no one to come home to, I'm perfectly fine with solidarity.

"I could tell you if you could do me a solid"

Being keen on adding her forced, restless wink.

"Jesus Christ, Reagan, what is it that I could possibly have to offer you? I'm not some god damn charity."

"I wasn't going to ask for money or nothing, I just wanted to know some more about you, John."

"Does it have to be now?"

"Well I'd like it to be now."

"Fine, however you have to tell me who that woman is, fair?"

"I think it's more than fair, getting a chance to talk to you and all."

Reagan always took an interest in me, ever since her first day working at The Hotel Poison. Reagan used to be somewhat bearable, similar in nature to how a father loves his own son while still needing his own privacy. Reagan, however, denied me of this privacy, outlining it as only a foreign concept made for unhonest men. As time progressed, Reagan started to notice just how much more time she could be spending with me, instead of doing her job.

With a sigh, I cleared my mind, wondering what would keep her away from me, if not for another twelve or so minutes.

"So, what do you want to tell me? You're a really special man, I'd love to know more about what made you, you."

"The same as everyone else, Reagan, my father."

"Well do you hate him? love him?"

"Neither, my father was an ordinary man, with an ordinary job, as well as an ordinary kid."

"That's not very eye opening, John. I'm left hanging, here you have this wonderful woman begging to know more about you, and your stuck on some hag of a bitch who called you out for staring at her."

At that moment, I desperately hoped that Reagan would realize that I had only wanted her to do her job, nothing more.

"Look, you're simply not my type, don't make a scene over it."

Making sure to lower my tone as not to draw attention from any other patrons.

"I did as you asked, now tell me who she is."

Reagan was more than livid, tearing and cracking at the seems as if I had just divorced her. I see people all around myself long for this kind of connection, I always wonder if it's ever worth while. It's a gamble: either a taxing 'happy' ending free of solitude, or a heart-wrenching departure free of restraints. Two sides of the coin, with its own trade-offs. To be together without privacy, or alone with privacy.

"Her name is Abigail, okay? No matter how hard I try I can't get to you, why won't you let me?"

Tears obscured her somber eyes as Reagan fiddled with her hands to find a way to calm herself to no avail. Eventually resolving by storming off to the break room.

All a fruitless effort as after the door closed to the break room, Abigail took notice as well as invitation to scold once more.

"What did you just do to her?"

A look of disgust filled her face as if she had never witnessed such horrific social abuse before.

"Real question is, why do you care enough to scold me on it?"

Prelude, Chapter 2

"You seem to think very highly of yourself."

"Should I think of myself lower instead?"

For being contained in what is essentially a metal box, the acoustics sounded quite nice, not an echo to be heard. You would've expected an echo, at least a slight echo. Not even a pip from the metal halls on the outside leading to the metal room, all is quite, all is still.

"No, John, I simply want to know why."

"Then why don't you ask? This is why I never went to see a shrink myself, you spend too much time weighing the whole damn conversation as if it were a game of chess."

"You do the same John, you do realize that, right?"

"Why a metal room?"

"You're deflecting John, does it bother you when you're called out?"

"You're deflecting as well, Doc."

The best part of shrinks, rather why I wouldn't talk to one on my own accord, is when they rephrase the words that come out of your mouth. Comparable to a more intelligent parrot, listening, adapting, then finally repeating. Why not play them at their own game, it certainly makes them less boring. They have this way about them, dress simple, live simple, die simple. I see people worship their shrink like they're a fucking god. Best they are, under developed introverts, patching their lives at the expense of others.

"I'm following your lead, John."

"What lead is there to follow?"

"Well, from what you've told me so far I'm having a tough time believing you."

"Why's that, Doc?"

"Your story seems, lenient in your favor."

"You didn't become a shrink for nothing, you must have some brains in there. I understand however, it could all be a lie, it could all be the truth."

"That's how I know it's the truth. You lead my down my own road of doubt, knowing deep down you want help, you want improvement, you want, something real, John."

"What I want is to get out of here, Doc."

"Why's that? What could you possibly have to do that's more important than being here?"

"What makes it important that I have to be here, Doc?"

"Tell me, John, how did you get here? Why did you come here? When did you get arrive in my office? I could go on and on, ramble on how unaware you are of your surroundings, let alone your life!"

"Do you remember what you had for dinner last night? How about the night before that? It's all pointless details, I won't grow a third eye by speaking with you, let alone gain anything monetary."

"You haven't even asked for my name, John. You're unfocused, off your game, if you will. You're clearly struggling with something huge, you've been here countless times before, but never for this long. Something is terribly wrong and I know it."

"I don't need to know your name, Doc. When I leave this room, you cease to exist, everything that you are, everything you will and won't be, seemingly vanishes into thin air, and that small, insignifigant instance of your life, where you were truly alive, becomes nothing. You pertain as a memory, nothing more, Doc."

"Don't you ever get tired of moving past this 'death,' John?"

"I'm desensitized to it, I've been for a long time now."

"Then why are you still here?"

"I like it here, it's where I'd dream of being. A bare room, filled with no distractions. A simple life, nothing to worry about, only you're in here with me again."

"I'm always here with you, John."

"I know, Mary, I know."

"Then why don't you talk to me? You ignore, push me to the side, you're only here when you need something from me. John, when will you care for me, I know it's possible, I saw what happened with Abigail. It's possible, John."

"I'm sorry, Mary, I don't know what to do anymore.

"Tell me what happened next, John, lead away."

"Tell me, Doc, have you ever had some words stuck in your head? Rattling like marbles in a jar, screaming, to be let out?"

"I can't say I've had, John. What kind of words are trapped in your head?"

"Tiny phrases just leak into my brain, implanting themselves deep into any thought that manifests. Whether it be a full blown poem or two measly words. They invade my mind, stretching the fabric of my own skull begging to be repeated, heard."

"Would it help you if you said some of these words or poems? Perhaps I could help you better understand them."

"Painted whispers marked in gray, valiant hearts give the nobelest efforts, tears from Saturn fall on Jupiter, then Pearl Cliffs. It's meaningless gibberish, the raving of a lunatic."

"Johnathan, you've not gone mad, I promise. Do you know where you might have heard some of these words?"

"I couldn't tell you, like I said they just seep inside of my skull."

"Well, what most of them have in common are undertones of sorrow. All suggesting a hidden nature to what we precieve as 'normal,' whether it be through the personification of planets or paint."

"Why do they haunt me then? Why did this parasite infect me of all people?"

"I couldn't tell you, John, I really couldn't, are you feeling okay?"

Similar to a rubber band, reality snapped back, dragging my corpse along with it, dragging me back into my shell of invulnerability.

"I'm as fine as you are."

"Okay, John, would you like to continue about Abigail?"

"No, I don't think I even could."

"And why's that?"

"Would you relive tragedy over again if someone had simply asked you?"

"It's okay, John, I understand. What would you rather talk about?"

"Harvey."

"Again? I must've heard all about her a thousand times over. Does it even lessen the pain to share it?"

"I could never fully share it with anyone else, Mary. It helps me feel heard, and understood. You still remember when we truly met right?"

"I do, John."

"August, 11th."

"Why do you memorialize me?"

"This isn't what this is about."

"Then what is it about, John?"

"We're done here, Mary."

"No! John, stop! Please listen! Something is wrong, you can't leave!"

Continuation, Chapter 2

"I care enough because I just saw a grown woman cry her way into what I can only assume is a broom closet!"

"I've seen worse things happen to her, it's illogical really. I've seen men sexually assault that woman, spit on her, push her around, yet she sucks it in, deals with it. Yet, Some man, not too keen on talking in that exact moment tells her so, then everyone starts noticing and caring. People are too absorbed into their drinks to notice the world around them. You see a woman slap a man, you assume he's a creep. You see a man slap a woman, what do you assume? People judge off of sight, not context."

I felt proud after my monologue, I'm sure there was an error or two within my logic. With the influx of dialog, I didn't think Abigail would give a damn enough to call me out for it.

"Those are nothing but absurdity examples used to illustrate your point, painting a picture where you aren't the villian!"

"Do you see me as a villian then?"

"I just see you as another asshole in another shitty pub." She said, throwing her hands in the air as a mother giving up on a father. Fed up with defending him, trying every angle to force herself with him. I was all too accustomed to it. Eventually she would come back, but not tonight, not yet at least.

However, I was greedy, I wanted more that night, I was put into a manic state from the Pastor and Reagan. At this point my life felt pretty worthless. Not that I was depressed, I just didn't want to be there or anywhere at that given moment. To be relieved of all uncertain moving parts while also wanting to further torment myself.

"Abigail." I muttered, hoping it truly was her name. Maybe it was as she turned her head back to me, giving me her attention, fully and undivided. I couldn't fully explain what it was on her face, it was almost as if I had seen something new in my life, something I'd been searching so long for. In that moment I felt flustered, similar to a hallway crush. It brought forth so much curiosity. The air became much more tense. It felt as if it were only me and her in the bar, no one else.

I hadn't felt this much pressure upon myself in such a long time. Truly a fantastic feeling as it was. To be judged, every ounce of your character to be inspected for scrutinies and cracks. Truly exhilarating.

I shared no affection with this woman, I could never truly feel in that sort of way towards another, it was just incapable for me to conceive.